Attart came out looking almost the same as before she’d changed, save that her legs occasionally took on a slight shimmer when the light caught her skirt or underclothes. The double layer did do a little to cover her, but only just.

I handed her the last card, this one depicting a golden gate barring passage to a flaming abyss, “One more card Master Tom, and I’ll do my best to reveal to you the nature of your holy man’s deck.”

Tom hopped up onto one of the chairs by his table so that his head was nearly level with my chest and Attart’s eyes.

“Master Tom wishes his best luck on Mistress for her card!”

He looked sincere enough, but that was one of the problems with elves. They were always sincere. I noticed the master had said “his best luck”, and not “the best luck”.

I guess the badger’s luck was stronger, because when Attart placed that card against her chest, everything went wrong for Tom.

***

Crack!

The sound wasn’t loud, just the card unsticking from Attart’s skin, but in the quiet anticipation it sounded like a gunshot.

At first I thought the sound had startled Tom, for he toppled forward at the same instant the card broke free, but rather than make any effort to catch himself he continued to fall, lifeless.

Attart flinched in precisely the wrong direction setting their heads on a collision course, but before they impacted the hob turned into a streamer of light and shot into Attart’s eyes. In the next moment her whole body began to glow.

And then she began to shrink.

Whatever past-Oswic’s flesh had been made of, it didn’t appear to be a stable substance. First she’d become Attart, and then dream Attart, and now her hair was crawling back into her head as she shrunk and her brand-new clothes—once tight—were draping about her like a child playing dress up.

It wasn’t just her height that was changing, it was her proportions as well. Her nose and ears crooked and sharpened like knives. Her impossible breasts and hips sagged and shrunk back down to dimensions closer to what she’d previously held. Her eyebrows grew bushy and her face wrinkled like a wet sheet of paper.

Finally, for the first time since her first card, her expression changed. Her eyes grew clever with a spark of mischief. Her skin cooled as the permanent blush retreated. And her mouth moved into an expression of horror.

“What has Mistress done? Oswic help! Attart’s mind is-she is, Mistress Attart has gone mad Sir! Tom has invaded her mind!”

I moved my swords slowly over to hover over the space between myself and... whoever it was in that oversized tunic with underclothes and skirt pooling about her feet.

The voice wasn’t Attart’s or Tom’s, nor the altered voice the shrine card had given her. This was different.

“Sir/Osw-, please do not just stand there! Tom/Attart is needing saving Sir!”

Right. Better action of any kind than allowing fear to continue to grow.

I raised my hands, though drew no closer, just in case, “Attart, Tom, whoever you are. Please. Listen to my voice. We will figure this out okay?”

“Oswic Attart understan-” I cut her off with a second wave of my hands.

“Let’s go with nods for now. Do you understand?”

Attart, or Tom, or whoever it was nodded.

“Now, all together, following me, let us take a deep breath in. Raise your hands from your abdomen to your chin as you do so.”

The exorcise was good, but it didn’t really matter. The important thing was seeing if she could-

-darkness rose from every corner of my vision at once. Light was devoured. The sun was lost. Light returned, now dimmer than before. The last sun had fallen-

-Tom (or Attart) was unaware of my plight, so consumed by her own. She closed her eyes and breathed in slowly as she raised her hands. They rose without the slightest waver. I myself was more shaken from what I’d just seen.

Whatever I’d planned to say was gone. Instead I found myself fixating on her form once more. She’d lost about half a foot in height and still looked far more herself than Tom. Even the more extreme changes which had made Attart look old and angular had mostly reversed themselves. Her ears were still pointed and her skin still weathered, but now in a way which was striking rather than depreciating.

Her smile was less fixed, though she still seemed mostly unable to control it and the crafty look in her eyes had become flirtatious in nature. Perhaps if Tom’s mother had been a great beauty she would have looked something like this in her youth, though presumably quite a bit smaller.

At least the changes seemed to have stopped.

“Sir Oswic? Please help poor Attart. She does not know what has happened to her Sir. Please Sir, her mind is tearing asunder.”

Curiosity would be my path forward. I couldn’t ignite myself to keep Attart warm or we’d both die once the flames snuffed out, but I could find a common ground to give both of us strength.

What had happened to her? I needed the card and I needed her calm. That meant steady clear instructions working toward my goal.

“Sir promised Attart to reveal the nature of the cards, not use them on poor sweet Tom. She doesn’t like these cards Sir. Sir must solve it at once!”

I mentally shook myself. Anything would do, just give her an instruction.

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

“Attart, could you please retrieve the card you used for me? I have an idea, but I want to make sure of it.”

Attart rummaged through her now doubly overlarge tunic with a haste edging on madness, but at least she was occupied. The card fell free from the tunic as she searched and she was none the wiser.

I took a risk and crept as close as I dared to retrieve the card with the edge of my boot. I remained where I was and Attart remained where she was and neither of use was fused to the other, so I considered the action a success. I could only thank the heavens Tom had been standing closer to Attart than I had.

I scooted the card a few feet a way and picked it up without Attart noticing. She now had her whole head in her tunic and was spinning it about her body as she searched.

I’d leave her to it.

I placed the card with the others.

The drum washing away the fourth world had taken Oswic’s body and given it to Attart; from he with two to she with none. Sins past annihilated so that creation could start anew.

The transmutation of metals into gold had taken spiritual mud from Attart’s new body, weakening her temporarily and strengthening me; from she with more strength to him with less? I doubted Attart was stronger than me. Maybe more flexible? The card itself was obvious to any Magi. The purification of base metals leaving behind the slag and drawing forth spiritual gold. It was the philosopher’s stone.

The man prostrating to the dawning sun shrine had further changed Attart’s body to be closer to an ideal than a reality; a place to worship? More than any other, this card confounded me. Beauty was one thing, but what was with that loving smile? I felt like her husband returned from the war every time she looked at me.

The elves repairing a broken window with gold had promised restitution; the broken future becoming a treasure beyond compare. The window would be forever changed. Gold let in less light than glass, for one thing. But how much light it let in wasn’t the only measure of a window. This card was an outlier in that it hadn’t changed Attart in some way. At least as far as I was aware.

The golden gate barring passage to the flaming abyss had merged Tom and Attart body and soul; the wise shall be guard for the sinner. Spiritual gold barred the path of damnation.

True magic was strong in the nature of these cards. The deck would not be out of place on the shelf of one of the wise. The window had more of a fairy tale to, but the druids were similar enough to the Magi that there was significant overlap.

Only the shrine evaded me. Was the problem the worship of the shrine when the sun itself was right there? Beauty was universal, but it was beheld differently through its many facets. So why did the forms taken by Attart reflect my own preference?

My soul was still bound to Attart’s body, even in spite of all which had befallen us. Perhaps that explained the connection.

No, I was thinking about it the wrong way around.

If Attart was the worshipper depicted on the card rather than the shrine or the sun, then it was a card of devotion. Love, tenderness, kindness, care. Her expression held all of them, and all were signs of devotion. Even her body had become “devoted” to me by changing to be as appealing as possible to my eye.

Which made the card a strange form of literal parable.

There.

That was the connection.

Each card taught a lesson.

Redemption.

Transmutation.

Devotion.

Perseverance.

And... redemption again?

No. The gates prevented access to damnation outright. They did not retrieve lost souls.

Salvation then.

Attart was still searching her tunic. Tom’s influence was strong.

“Attart. Master Tom. I’ve discovered the nature of your cards.”

Attart popped her head out of the sleeve of her tunic, “Si-Oswic has fou- You have found their nature?”

I spread the five cards on the table.

“They are virtues represented by Magus archetypes. The exact outcomes are unclear and may even be cursed, but the foundation is deducible. The holy man was not cruel, even his curses offer a path forward.”

“He has bound our souls, Oswic. Mine and Tom’s. That is what it feels like, though I have never felt something like this before.”

“I have some suspicions, but first, you still view yourself and Tom as separate? Or yourself as the primary soul?”

“I would hardly be a master necromancer if I could not maintain a strong sense of self in the presence of other souls. We are bound but Attart has wrestled for her sense of self.”

It was hard to say how she viewed that slip up, as her face was still almost entirely locked into a flirtatious smile. It was less distracting than the loving gaze she’d had going earlier, but it was probably even less representative of what she wanted to be expressing. A grimace, if I had to guess.

Attart continued, “That said, I have never before such difficulty integrating a soul into mine. I had thought my first experience would make a second easier, but I feel as though I am tearing apart.”

That tracked with where my mind was going, time to confirm it, “Could you make me a new set of clothes from your collection?”

“I... Tom begs your pardon? Attart does not think this is the time for making clothes.”

Well that threw me off. She was not compelled to form bargains above all else, even though she had refereed to herself as Tom.

I held up two fingers, “How many fingers do you think am I holding up? Lie about your answer.”

She stared at me flirtatiously but did not speak. Strange.

“I am trying to determine the nature of your bond with Tom.”

Her mouth quirked as though I’d said something witty, “Oh! I was terribly confused. You are holding up twelve fingers.”

She wasn’t compelled to make oaths and could lie easier than some Magi. That must mean, “You don’t seem to have inherited any of the elven compulsions. Unfortunately, that means you also won’t have inherited Tom’s elven talents. The two are inextricably twined.”

“Tom will keep her promise to save Oswic’s friend, Sir.”

It was disturbing hear someone else talk like Tom. Attart was the expert on soul mergers, but I suspected whatever process the souls underwent wasn’t yet complete. Even she, master necromancer that she was, didn’t know why she was having so much troubles with Tom.

“You can save Eric now that I’ve explained the cards?”

“Of course, Sir. Old Tom Oldshoe never breaks her promises Oswic.”

Tom certainly seemed to come out in force when discussing oaths.

“I think the problem you’re having is the alienness of an eleven soul. There are some who contend elves don’t even have souls, that they are instead forces of nature. Which is clearly wrong, but I suspect the strength of his soul and its utter inhumanity will take some time to adapt to, if ever.”

And you only need watch the tiniest of flames to see even forces of nature held souls.

“It is most uncomfortable Sir. I,” she drew out the word in a way which left no doubt as to the nature of her victory, “think it best we save Eric at once.”

“See if there is some clothes over there which fit you first. They’re yours now after all.”

Attart produced a sound which on a less comely body I would describe as a cackle. Here maybe I’d settle for calling it a breathy laugh.

“I suppose they are,” she said.